"We were both looking at the same moon,
I think," she replied.
I'd overheard her in passing
On the Upper West Side.

Where players and poets,
Tune cellos and turn words round,
Where sidewalk cracks snag you,
And dogs, well, enough said.

Maybe that's it.
There are twin moons!
Shining down upon us
their celestial lights.

Might account for…
UFOs,
Conspiracy theories,
And political unreason.

Moreover, might explain…
The Color Wheel,
Hues of hierarchy forever depicting,
the Favored and shading the Forsaken.

Twin Moons!
Silly idea, really.

Of course, merging two moons,
	That's a job for the fair Selene,
		Backing  up the chariot,
			To seamlessly unite the pair.

But, I'm not sure she's prepared,
	Learned the shift pattern,
		Uses the rearview mirror,
			Turns her head around,
Or is interested much,
 In, reversing her course.

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I am certain Covid broke us.
Slid right in and commandeered
The anterior insular cortex,
Rendering it feckless.

The insidious vapors of virus,
Crept through grey pattern,
like fissures in Britain's fine china, 
weakening vessels.

It challenged stoic cake-baking, 
cheek-pinching Grandmothers 
now weary, brittle like breath,
Mugged and stole delinquent affection.

Their confections and convictions
Dried up, gone to seed.
Their ovens long  gone cold
Like their parting, parched mouths.

It rankled outliers rowdy with
drink, now shooting before sighting,
Shooting mouths,
Shooting hearts, shooting voices.

Explosive, shrapnel-laden fury envelops,
The hand that shoves the traveler,
The hand that slaps the lover.
The hand that pulls the trigger.

What do we lack, for nothing?
Our coffers depleted,
Our mouth's drier still
Without the stale Body of Christ.

Our god. 
Our selves.
Our salvation.

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